


In All Their Glory

by Evandar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Consensual Underage Sex, First Time Blow Jobs, Glory Hole, Harry Potter Has Issues, Harry Potter Has Never Received a Talk About Stranger Danger and it Shows, M/M, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, Praise Kink, Referenced prostitution, Sirius Black Has Issues, Tattoo Kink, The Wizarding Legal System is Insane, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27231244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: Harry's latest hiding spot in Little Whinging is the public loos at the back of the park. This leads to an unusual encounter, a new adventure, and the start of something very different.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 622





	In All Their Glory

He’s hiding from Dudley and his gang. Nothing unusual for a summer holiday, there. In a sick sort of way, he almost misses the post-Dobby days of the previous year, when he’d been locked and bolted into his room and fed through a cat-flap. He’d been starving, yes. Half a tin of soup a day is not enough food for a twelve-year-old – not even a small one, and Harry is still very small for his age – and by the time he’d been rescued, he’d been delirious enough that he might have thought the flying car was a hallucination if it hadn’t made such a noise yanking the bars off his window. He’d spent the first few months after that throwing up Mrs Weasley’s rich meals after each one, and eating carefully at school.

Still, he misses it. He may have been starving, but at least he wasn’t getting beaten up every other day.

His latest hiding spot is… grim to say the least. The public loos at the back of the park, near the trees. Dank and dubious: daubed with graffiti and… other things, probably. It smells. There’s a hole cut in the wall of Harry’s chosen cubicle that fills him with a weird, fluttery sort of unease. But Dudley and his mates avoid the place like the plague. Possibly because it’s manky, but also because it’s the sort of place that Aunt Petunia would ground Dudley for setting a foot close to – and Aunt Petunia _never_ grounds Dudley.

Awful as it is, though, Harry is safe here. Safe, but bored, and stuck staring at cracked off-white tiles and wondering why anyone would ever phone a number they found on the back of a toilet door. He knows that he’d be busier if he went back to Privet Drive. If Uncle Vernon thought he’d actually be hanging around, there would be a list of chores the length of his arm waiting for him every morning. But, after the letter from the Ministry last year, his cousin’s fear of Harry’s _freakishness_ has evaporated, and Harry knows fine well that if he were to attempt any of those theoretical chores, Dudley would be right behind him – mucking things back up, smacking him with his Smeltings stick, whaling on him alongside Piers, Malcolm and Dennis – and Harry would get the blame at the end of it.

So, boredom and the smell of urinal cake it is.

It’s late enough that it’s growing dark outside when the door opens. Harry freezes. He leans back against the cistern and looks through the hole in the plywood wall. It’s the reason why he chose this cubicle: from this vantage point, he can partly see the sinks. If it _is_ Dudley, he can climb up onto the cistern and out of the window. He’ll land in a bush, but better that than a fist.

It’s not Dudley. The man who shuffles over to the sinks isn’t anyone he’s seen in Little Whinging before. He almost looks homeless, matted black hair hanging to his hips, except he’s wearing a _robe_. A faded, tattered grey robe, but a robe nonetheless.

Harry presses a hand to his mouth to muffle his breathing. As far as he knows, he’s the only wizard in Little Whinging. It’s a painfully Muggle sort of place, with identical houses lining identical streets, with identically manicured lawns. The only real variation between houses are the cars on the driveways. No one, _no one_ except Harry would even dream of wearing a robe – and even he wouldn’t do it here.

He watches, wide-eyed, as the man strips the robe from his emaciated frame. The robe is ditched into one of the sinks, and Harry hears a tap turn on. He doesn’t dare to move, to look away, as the man starts scrubbing at himself. He knows he should, but he can’t. This man is a _wizard_. More than that, he’s a potential threat. He hasn’t seen a wand yet, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one, and after Quirrell and Lucius Malfoy and Lockhart, he knows that grown-up wizards are just like every other adult he’s ever met – they may not have his best interests at heart.

So, he watches. He watches as the man scours away layers of grime, revealing intricate runic tattoos along his hips and spiralling down his legs. When he bends forward, his matted hair shifts enough for Harry to see them running down the length of his spine and branching out around his ribs. They’re beautiful, and he can’t help but wonder what they say – he makes a vague mental note to write to Professor McGonagall and swap Divination for Ancient Runes. He watches, shifting awkwardly, as the man uses the dregs of the cheap hand-soap to scrub at his armpits and between his legs. He listens to the muffled swearing, the sighs of relief: the man has the same aristocratic accent as Malfoy – completely at odds with his appearance.

Harry’s uncomfortable shifting must have made some sort of noise, because the man raises his head suddenly. He cocks it, obviously listening intently. Harry freezes, hand still clamped over his mouth, trying as much as he can to muffle his breathing. 

There’s a long moment where neither of them move, but slowly the man shakes his head and returns his attention to cleaning himself. Harry exhales slowly, shakily, settling back on the lid of his adopted loo. He still doesn’t look away. He doesn’t dare.

He watches as the man reclaims his abandoned robe. He scrubs at that too, but judging from the state of the fabric and the state of the bathroom they’re in, it’s a hopeless cause. Eventually, he sets it aside again, sighing softly. Harry bites his lip, but the rising sense of pity in his chest swiftly turns to panic when the man turns around.

He’s naked. Very naked. Harry’s never actually seen a grown man naked before, and the part of his brain that isn’t fizzing with fear and mortification is aware enough to realise that this is very different from sneaking peeks at the older students in the Quidditch locker rooms. Even soft, the man’s cock is long and thick; its base obscured by a thick bush of black curls. He’s tattooed there, too – a fine line of runes running up the middle of the shaft. The runes flare out over his hip bones and his belly, following the path of black hair up towards his navel. The lines that had winged out from his spine curve around his front too, highlighting each and every one of his very visible ribs. He’s so _thin_. There are larger runes on the man’s chest, running in a semi-circle just below his collarbone. The largest, Harry actually recognises: he’s drawn the symbol for Pluto enough times for his Astronomy homework to know it by now. They continue in spirals over his biceps, fine lines over the backs of his hands and fingers and circles around his wrists. 

There are none on his face. His gaunt, skeletal face that was possibly once handsome. Harry can’t tell how old the man is.

What he can tell, is that the man has seen him. Silver-grey eyes are locked on him, and Harry jerks back instinctively. The man laughs, an awful, rusty sound; it sounds like he hasn’t laughed in years.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. “Promise. I don’t have any money to pay you, either. You’re safe.”

He _does_ sound like Malfoy. All sharp consonants and long, rounded vowels. Except, he sounds a lot kinder than Malfoy, and he doesn’t seem at all embarrassed by either his nudity or having been watched.

“Um, money?” Harry asks. “Why would I wa – oh.”

He glances at the phone numbers written on the door. He looks back at the hole he’s been peering through – judges its height off the floor and mentally compares it to an adult. He can feel his cheeks burning; made worse by the way that the man is watching him back. His head is tipped slightly to the side in thought, and he’s made no move to put his robe back on. Rather, he’s leaning back against the sink in a way that – intentionally or not – draws Harry’s attention to the thick line of his cock, resting soft against his thigh.

Harry licks his lips.

He’s heard things, of course, from older students at school. Caught wind of the things that Katie, Alicia and Angelina giggle about behind their hands; the rumours that are whispered about Oliver and Marcus Flint, of all people. He has an idea of what’s going on – of what the man must be thinking about him – and it’s… weirdly, not that unappealing. He’s curious and the man is, in a way, attractive. His tattoos. His confidence. His eyes.

“You wouldn’t have to pay me,” he says quietly. His words echo off the tiles. “I’m, er, not exactly a professional.”

The man snorts with laughter. “Yeah? You seem pretty young, kid.”

“I’m old enough,” Harry tells him. It’s not even a lie. There had been a rather horrifying series of health classes in first year, taught by Madam Pomfrey, that had revealed that the age of consent in Wizarding Britain hadn’t changed since the Statute of Secrecy was enacted in 1692. He and Ron had been treated to several outraged lectures from Hermione before the approach of exams had successfully distracted her. Honestly, Harry had never thought much about it. Not until now, anyway.

The man hesitates before approaching slowly. “What were you doing in here, then?” he asks. “Not being ‘a professional.’”

“Hiding from my cousin,” Harry admits. “He, er. He and his gang like to beat on smaller kids. I’m smaller.”

And always would be, thanks to the cupboard and the missed meals. He’s learned not to let it bother him too much.

“They never come in here,” he continues. The man’s face drops out of sight. He can see the pale skin of his belly and the jut of his hips instead, the dark line of hair. “It’s quiet.” He can feel his heart hammering behind his ribs. His stomach feels tight and hot, and he shifts awkwardly again as he realises that he’s getting hard. 

“You sure about this, kid?” the man asks, soft and low. He’s right by the hole, and Harry finds himself staring at the runes running down his prick. He thinks he recognises a couple from researching Nicholas Flamel in first year, and it occurs to him that this really isn’t the context he thought he might have seen them again. 

He swallows nervously. He doesn’t trust his mouth not to open and say something ridiculous. Instead, he reaches out a hand and curls it around the man’s prick. He’s still mostly soft, but he’s hot in Harry’s hand – and heavy. Far heavier than Harry’s own. He strokes gently before pulling his hand back and spitting into his palm. He grasps him again, a bit more firmly, and begins to stroke.

On the other side of the wall, the man sighs. His cock is beginning to fill rapidly, becoming heavier, thicker, longer. Harry leans forward in his seat and traces the tip of his tongue over the rune tattooed on the underside of the man’s prick, just under the head. It’s – he _thinks_ \- the alchemic symbol for life. The man makes a soft, pleased noise, and Harry grins.

“I like the tattoos,” he admits, before ducking in and tracing the next one – this one is _definitely_ the symbol for purity – and the next one, possibly honey – before flattening his tongue and licking a broad stripe back up to the head.

He tastes of warmth and skin and the vaguely astringent remnants of the hand soap he was using to wash with. It’s surprisingly pleasant, Harry thinks as he laps at the broad, spongey head. Heat is spreading through his belly. His cock is aching, and he drops his free hand to his lap to squeeze at himself through his jeans.

He finds himself very aware of the noise that they’re making. He’s spent the most part of the day with his ears pricked for any sign of Dudley and his gang, entirely silent except for his own breathing. Now he’s panting heavily, kissing and slurping wetly at the cock in front of him; the strokes of his hand making wet little slapping sounds. The man is panting as well, moaning softly with every touch of Harry’s tongue.

Harry draws back slightly. Now fully hard, the man seems impossibly long and thick. He’s flushed red with arousal and glistening with Harry’s saliva; there’s clear liquid beading at his slit, and Harry darts his tongue out to taste it. Bitter and musky, it’s not exactly the best flavour in the world, but it makes Harry’s belly swoop with desire. He wants more. He wants, he – 

He opens his mouth as wide as he can, and takes the head of the man’s prick inside. It’s difficult, more so than he was expecting, really, but the moan that the man makes sends shivers down his spine. He takes in more, guiding the man deeper until he’s brushing the back of his throat and Harry has to pull back before he starts choking. He strokes the man roughly while he catches his breath, twisting his hand in a way that _he_ likes, and that the man apparently enjoys too judging by the way his hips jerk.

“Fuck,” the man whispers. “Oh, fuck, you’re good at this, Sweetheart.”

Harry blushes furiously at the praise. Part of him wants to duck his head and shrink from it like he normally does, but another part – a greater part – wants to keep going, wants to win more. He wants the man to call him Sweetheart again. 

He takes him back into his mouth, as much as he can, bobbing his head as he sucks and stroking the parts he can’t reach. The man’s hips jerk again. Harry gags. He pulls back, spluttering; his eyes are watering. He’s suddenly very aware of just how _wet_ this is. He’s been drooling with his mouth so full, and it’s slick down his chin; now he’s practically crying. He’s glad that the man can’t really see him like this because he knows he must look like a complete mess, but at the same time he thinks he _likes_ it. He leans in again, kisses a sloppy path down the length of the man’s prick, pressing his nose into the wild, dark curls at the base. Like this, the man’s cock is pressed close to his face, smearing his own saliva along his cheek. He presses the heel of his palm against his own erection and rubs, moaning.

Long fingers brush his hair. He shivers and moans again, nuzzling at the base of the man’s cock. Nails scratch gently over his scalp as the man starts to _pet_ him. 

“You’re so good, Sweetheart,” the man says. He sounds rougher than before, breathless, and Harry feels a thrill of pleasure knowing that _he_ did it. _He_ made the man sound like that. 

When he draws back to take the man into his mouth again, the man’s hand remains in his hair. It can’t be a very comfortable angle, Harry thinks, but in a way, it’s comforting to have the man touch him. It’s grounding. He licks and sucks and bobs his head, taking the man deeper each time. When the man brushes the back of Harry’s throat, he holds Harry there – a gentle pressure on the back of his skull.

“Swallow, love,” he murmurs. “That’s it. So good, baby boy.”

Harry’s eyes water even as his heart skips a beat. He whines around the cock in his mouth, trying not to gag as he swallows it down. After what feels like an eternity, he has his nose pressed into those dark curls again. He feels lightheaded. The man tightens his grip on his hair and starts to thrust deep into Harry’s throat. 

Harry scrabbles at the fastenings on his jeans. He slips his hand inside to pull out his prick, moaning as his fingers wrap around himself. He strokes himself roughly; his other hand, no longer needed to stroke the man’s cock, is braced against the cubicle wall, holding him steady as the man uses his throat.

“Fuck,” the man pants. He draws back enough to let Harry breathe – Harry gasps for it, greedily sucking air into his lungs even as the head of the man’s cock presses insistently against his lips. Between the tears and the sudden influx of oxygen, his vision is swimming. He flicks his tongue around the head as he pants desperately, presses hungry little kisses to the slit, suckling at the bitter fluid gathering there.

Once he feels less like he’s going to pass out, he opens his mouth again and swallows the man back down to the root. It’s easier this time – to control the urge to gag, at any rate; his jaw is aching and his throat feels raw from being fucked. He’s knows he’s going to feel this for days, and his belly tightens at the thought of it. He strokes himself faster, and with a low moan he comes all over his fingers. The man’s hand tightens in his hair as if he knows what’s happened; he jerks Harry forward, holding him in place, and Harry can feel the man’s pulse against his tongue as he comes down his throat in long bursts. He draws back slowly, releasing his grip gently, leaving Harry’s scalp tingling at the absence of pressure. He starts stroking Harry’s hair again, and Harry sinks into it. He suckles at the man’s softening prick, laving him clean with his tongue until the man pulls away entirely. Then, Harry replaces his cock with his fingers, lapping his own cooling come off of his hand.

The man’s hand drops from his hair and retreats back through the hole. The bathroom is silent apart from their slowing breathing. Harry feels oddly warm and fuzzy, slightly light-headed, but calm. He feels like he’s floating.

“You okay, Sweetheart?” the man asks.

Harry nods before he remembers that the man can’t really see him. “Yeah,” he croaks out.

He stands slowly, tucking himself back into his jeans. He can hear rustling as the man dresses himself, and he unlocks his cubicle door just as the man finishes fastening what buttons are left on his tattered robes.

The man looks back at him and freezes, wide-eyed. Harry blinks at him. For a moment, he thinks the sudden guilt he can see sparking in the man’s eyes is because of the tear tracks and the spit that he can see smeared all over his face in the mirror. _Then_ he remembers that the man is a wizard and that to the vast majority of the wizarding population Harry is _Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived_ , and not actually a person. He’s a symbol of goodness and purity whenever he’s not maniacally setting snakes loose on the student population.

He gives an involuntary snort of laughter that turns into a cough. He steps closer and takes off his glasses, folding them and placing them on the edge of a sink as he bends to wash his face. When he straightens up, the man is still there, a grey and black blur. He dries his face on his shirt and slips his glasses back on.

The man is still staring at him, guilt warring what looks like joy. He doesn’t stop Harry as he steps closer, as he reaches for him. The man hasn’t drawn a wand yet; doesn’t seem as sinister as Lucius Malfoy or Professor Quirrell, or as dubious as Lockhart. Harry presses his hand to the man’s chest, where Pluto is inked onto his skin, and he leans up. The man isn’t very tall, so it’s easy to brush their lips together.

“Harry,” the man breathes, and it sounds like a benediction. One of his hands curls around Harry’s hip, holding him close almost desperately.

Harry shifts awkwardly. “Er, hi,” he says. “I, um. Don’t know who you are, but uh.” He takes a slow, deep breath. “I really liked that.”

The man laughs, an uncomfortable sort of chuckle. He runs a hand over his face, but doesn’t let Harry go. “Well,” he says after a moment. “My name’s Sirius. Sirius Black. I – didn’t realise who you were, obviously, but. I, ah. I’m your godfather.”

Harry blinks at him. Once. Twice. He leans back slightly to study the man’s face. He doesn’t _look_ like he’s joking. But.

“I don’t have a godfather,” he blurts out. “Or, well, I didn’t know I had one.”

“I, I was arrested,” Sirius says. He’s still holding Harry close, still reluctant to let him go. Harry instinctively leans closer. He’s never really been hugged before – once or twice by Hermione and Mrs Weasley, but their hugs are exuberant and crushing. This isn’t. Sirius’ grip on him is firm, yes, but not suffocating; Harry could still twist free if he wanted. 

“It was just after your parents died. I was sent to prison without trial,” Sirius continues. “T-twelve years. In Azkaban. I – I was innocent, Harry, I promise you. I didn’t do any of it.”

He’s telling the truth, Harry realises, and he relaxes slightly in Sirius’ hold. He rests his head on his shoulder. The tattered robes are damp and itchy and awful; despite their brief wash in the sink, they reek of seawater and sweat and other things Harry doesn’t want to identify. He ignores it, savouring instead the warmth of Sirius’ skin under his palm and the sound of his voice.

“Do you need a lawyer?” he asks, pondering over what little he knows about the wizarding world’s legal system. “Do wizards even have lawyers?”

“We do,” Sirius says, “and… yeah. That’s probably a good idea. I suppose I should head to Gringotts, then. See what vicious bastards the family kept on retainer.”

He says ‘the family’ the same way people in Uncle Vernon’s crime dramas refer to the Mafia. Harry grins. 

“I, er, came here to check on you,” Sirius says after a moment. “Make sure you’re alright.”

He sounds very much like he’s trying to be a responsible adult, but the weight of what they’ve just done is pressing down on them. Harry giggles, feeling slightly hysterical. He can still taste Sirius’ come in his mouth, mingled with his own slightly sweeter flavour. It’s impossible to ignore, and he doesn’t want to know what life might be like for them if he tries. Instead, he raises his head and leans in again, kissing Sirius until the man relaxes into it; until he crushes Harry close and sweeps his tongue into his mouth.

Harry’s cock twitches eagerly against Sirius’ thigh. Sirius groans into him, pressing him up against the sinks. The hand on Harry’s hip slides under his T-shirt, long fingers dipping under the waistband of Harry’s jeans, caressing the sensitive skin of his lower belly.

“You sure?” Sirius asks. “You’re sure this is how you want this to go? We can’t just go back and change our minds, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry whispers. “I know, and I want it.” He pecks lightly at Sirius’ lips. “Want you. Want to go _with_ you.”

Sirius hesitates, but only for a moment. “Okay,” he whispers back. “Okay, Sweetheart.”

He seals his promise with a kiss. One that steals the breath from Harry’s lungs and leaves him panting and wanton when Sirius finally releases him. He takes a slow, shuddering breath as Sirius grins at him – the expression mildly terrifying, but the sentiment behind it less so. He looks into Sirius’ eyes and thinks that the man might actually _love him_ – something bizarre and unfamiliar and _brilliant_.

He grins back, unable to help it. He already wants Sirius so much: wants to see Sirius look at him like that every day, wants to curl up in his arms and be held. Wants to be _loved_.

It’s frightening, but he’s devoted already.

He listens to Sirius’ quiet instructions. To get his things, to hail something called the Knight Bus and head to Diagon Alley. To check-in at the Leaky Cauldron and then head straight to Gringotts. He nods. He repeats them back to him. He calms his racing heart and wipes his palms on his jeans. He kisses Sirius’ lips once more, just briefly before the man turns into a giant black dog with thick, shaggy fur. The dog licks Harry’s fingers gently and lets him pet his ears for a moment before urging Harry out of the toilet block and into the gathering night.

The park is silent except for the wind in the trees and the clicking of Sirius’ claws as he follows Harry out into the dark. Harry takes a long, deep breath of clean air and grins madly, turning his feet towards Privet Drive.

He’s going to free his godfather. He’s going to free them _both_.


End file.
